Published 2:49 pm, Friday, September 4, 2015

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman, upon finally coming to terms with her divorce and its aftermath, will find herself suddenly, quite happily single. Sadly, it is a truth also universally acknowledged, that once this happens, all types of situations will manifest to remind her of her singleness.

Situation One: The House of Pies Confession

It's a Wednesday afternoon, and I'm late to meet my friend Mandy. She's recently back from an overseas trip, and I've just started a new job and broken up with Jeff, my first post-divorce boyfriend. Red-faced and breathless, I slide into the booth and apologize.

"No worries. I just got here myself," Mandy says, and then I look at her. Really look at her. She's getting a divorce, but instead of looking devastated, she's so happy she's glowing. I can feel the warmth.

"Mandy?" I look at her with what my friends call "the look." She turns red and bursts into giggles.

"I have a boyfriend!" She covers her mouth as she blurts it out. She looks so sheepish.

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"That guy from OK Cupid?" I lean forward, remembering how she'd told me she was starting to go online even though her divorce won't be final for awhile, and how she wasn't happy with any of the choices. But then Jeremy appeared, and just from their online chats, Mandy was smitten.

"Yes!"

She tells me all about him, about how they met in person and hit it off instantly, how their first date went for hours. As she talks, she gets more and more excited. I'm happy for her — truly — just as I am happy for all of my friends (and right now there are many) who are in new or young romantic relationships. There's nothing quite like the rush of those first few weeks together, or even the first few months. You're discovering each other and exploring each other and fantasizing about the possibilities. It's a speculative time, but also very much a passionate one.

I struggle to maintain my composure. The tears are mixed — mostly happy tears, because in the eight years I've known Mandy, I've never seen her so happy. Never. Not even close.

"It's fine, really. I'm just happy for you," I say, but a tear slips out. It lingers on my lower lashes.

"You'll find your person too," she says, and I want to believe her, but I'm not sure I do. I really hope that person is out there for me, but even if he isn't, I will be okay. That's the difference between where I was a few months ago and where I am now. I'm okay with the possibility that I won't find my someone.

We continue to talk about Jeremy and Mandy and their next steps and what he's done for her, and how everything is working out logistically since she and her soon-to-be ex are not officially divorced. We eventually turn the conversation to her artwork and my writing and a host of other topics, but in my mind the question lingers — do I have a person? And if I do, where is he?

Situation Two: The Unexpected Spotlight, Eldridge Parkway

It's a Sunday evening, and I'm attending a classy, somewhat proper gathering, a wine tasting. There are mostly couples around my age and a few women in their seventies and eighties, and then me — with no date (I'm fine with that) and a complete stranger to all but the hostess (I'm less fine with that). My usual way of handling such situations is to park myself in the corner and be an observer. This strategy fails, however, when the hostess seats me at the center table, near the center, and then one of the other guests turns to me in front of everyone.

"I know you" — she points — "You're the writer. You're always behind the computer. You're the one who writes that column in the Houston Chronicle."

"Oh?" One of the older women smiles, suddenly interested. "What is the column about?"

All heads turn. Everyone looks at me. I gather up my strength and my best dignity and say, as carefully as I can, "It's called Split Happens. It's about separation and divorce. I interview people sometimes and sometimes talk about my own story."

The woman across from me leans forward, elbows on the table. "How do you find the people? Who gives you your material?"

I raise my glass, think carefully, so many faces floating in my memories.

"I sometimes look," I say, slowly. "But most of the time, material finds me."

"You make people who aren't usually interesting interesting," says the woman at the end of the table.

"Oh no," I say, thinking of all the people I've written about in my column. "They're interesting already — sometimes too interesting."

"Ah, you get the cream of the crop," she says.

"That's one way to look at it." I smile and take a sip of the champagne. This is maddening, I think, and then wonder what it is that so disturbs me. Everyone goes back to eating. The sommelier comes with the next wine — a Pinot Noir, he says, full-bodied, with a soft but spicy finish.

The memories of my marriage linger, too, but not as much these days, and they're no longer an intrusion. In fact, I can enjoy them now, some of them. I can pass by the office where my ex and I signed the papers to buy our house and smile when I remember our excitement. I've reached a place of semi-neutrality with it all, which my therapist tells me is a great sign of healing. I don't mind being alone, at least for now, and I'm getting to know myself and relishing that. But there are these moments when I'm aware of my singleness, aware of the constant aloneness.

I don't feel empty — I've never been one of those people who felt she has to have a boyfriend. But I do wonder. I wonder what I'm looking for in a relationship and if it's even possible for me to have it. I wonder why my alone state now really doesn't feel very different from the way I felt almost the whole twelve years of my marriage.

Most of all, I wonder what good can come of all this, out of the brokenness of my marriage and all the marriages that are breaking up around me. Were they all mistakes? Or is it that we just all changed and grew, and we aren't the same people we were when we made our initial commitments? Or, for some of us, did we wake up one day and realize that the people we married didn't exist anymore, and in fact maybe never even really existed? It's hard to come to terms with the idea that we married a fantasy, but for some of us, that's what happened. Once we realize that, it's easier to move on.

I tip the wine to my lips and take a sip. It's just as the sommelier said it was, all heavy spice and dark notes; I taste cinnamon, chocolate, and cherries. The taste lingers, resonant and full, without a trace of bitterness.

Kathryn M. Peterson (@happyinmyhead) is a freelance writer, editor and dissertation coach. "Split Happens" — a column about life after separation and divorce — runs here on Fridays. Names are changed, but the events are real.